


Owl Eyes

by unrivaled_tapestry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Fuckbuddies, Hurt, Injury, M/M, Secret Santa, Whipping Aftermath, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrivaled_tapestry/pseuds/unrivaled_tapestry
Summary: "Sylvain pushes it a little too far at a party in town. Fortunately, Hubert's still up. This hasn't been a part of their arrangement before, but there's a first time for everything."Written as part of the the 2020 Sylvbert Secret Santa Exchange for @paintingtomato on Twitter!
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	Owl Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paintingtomato](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=paintingtomato).



> This is my piece for the @SylvbertFE3H Secret Santa Exchange and is a gift for @paintingtomato. Thank you so much for your patience and I hope this satisfies a good chunk of what you asked for!
> 
> Thank you to Nuanta and Goop who did rapid fire looks at this piece <3

As Sylvain tried to hustle through the halls of Garreg Mach, he knew he’d messed up _bad_.

He kept one hand firmly planted in his pocket and the other bent at the elbow and holding a furred vest that, based on the way his breath was fogging in the air, he should have been wearing. All the while, he kept his back ramrod straight, just focused on not moving his shoulders while he walked, not letting his exposed undershirt pull at the raw edges underneath.

Fortunately his clothes were black, so when he passed a few Adrestian guards out of uniform, no one could see the wet sticking cloth to seeping his skin. If they noticed anything, it was probably how underdressed he was, but he was sure they’d shrug. Either ‘it’s General Gautier back from a night of philandering’ or ‘it’s General Gautier, it gets colder than this where he’s from.’

Glancing behind him, he stepped into the old dormitories as quickly as he dared, and had to square his jaw when he met the staircase. Getting up was a series of careful steps. A couple times, his shirt caught his back wrong and sent a shock of pain all the way up to his scalp.

He’d fucked up. He’d _fucked up_ —

He took in a breath and squeezed it out through his nose.

When he found Hubert’s door, he wiped the pain off his face and gave a polite knock.

He waited with an impatient energy in his boots, vest in hand, shirt stinging and clinging—

Sylvain knocked again, this time doing a perimeter check down the hallway

No answer.

“Come on, Hubert...” he mumbled. If tonight was the night Hubert had chosen to go to bed at a reasonable hour—

It was not. Several sets of locks clattered loud as a wyvern’s shriek in Sylvain’s head, rattling around in his ears as he stiffly braced himself against the doorframe and summoned his most winning smile.

The door opened, and Hubert met him with a profound scowl.

“Gautier,” he greeted tightly.

“Oh, am I glad to see you.” Sylvain gave a mock salute. “Hey, um, I need your help with something.”

“That’s unfortunate, as you’ll be waiting a long time in that case.” Hubert crossed his arms and looked down at Sylvain over the dark bags under his eyes. For good measure, he then added, “I’m _busy_.”

Sylvain laughed. He normally didn’t like asking for help, didn’t like the shape the word made on his tongue. Asking nice people was a nightmare, but Hubert always made a great face. Her Majesty’s sulking birdcatcher had the decency to look as put out at being asked as Sylvain was in the asking. It was more even footing.

“No, I mean like, really.” He gritted his teeth through another wave of pain. “I know, I’m shocked, too.”

At that, Hubert’s thin eyebrows dipped towards his nose, but his mouth softened into curiosity. “All right. I’ll bite. What brings you to my door?”

“Easier if I show you.” Sylvain stiffly turned around, which had the benefit of hiding his face as he reached up to the edge of his untucked shirt and carefully pulled it up to reveal the small of his back.

Hubert did him the courtesy of not gasping, of not acting shocked even if he was.

“Come inside,” Hubert snapped. “Don’t touch anything.”

Sylvain carefully rolled his shirt back down and stepped inside. Hubert shut the door behind him.

Sylvain didn’t touch anything, but Hubert never said not to look. Besides, he’d only had a few glimpses at Hubert’s room since the Professor’s return to the monastery, and at that it was more for a little mutual stress relief than sightseeing.

But based on what he had been able to make out, it seemed as though some novel terrible thing was added every time he sauntered in. There were always new books, new plans, new coded letters, and new tanks with angry, horned adders that hissed from across the room.

It had stabilized since Sylvain’s last visit. The bed was neatly made with folded sheets across the way, and next to it rested a table with a series of empty alchemical jars, tubes, and sigil stone burners. There were a pair of bookshelves, but they were mostly empty or used for storing a collection of rolled parchment. There was a well used writing desk with a lit candlestick and a larger table near the middle. It came with only two chairs and what looked to be a series of coffee-stained battle plans.

“Let me see it,” Hubert said crisply, a sharp edge over every consonant. That’s what Sylvain liked about him. Right to the point, no simpering—Hubert’s word, not his.

Sylvain sat backwards on one of the chairs near the table and began the process of removing his shirt.

It was slow going. During the walk back, the wound had oozed into the cloth, trying to heal by sealing fabric to tissue and hoping it was a suitable bandage. It stuck, and Sylvain couldn’t keep back every noise he tried to smother in his throat. _He’d fucked up_.

After what felt like a march across the bridge, Sylvain finally dropped the ruined thing on the floor, let his chin rest against the back of the chair as his hands fell to the edge of the table.

Now he could feel the angry heat radiating from his shoulders, even more inflamed now that it was exposed to the cool air of Hubert’s room.

“Gautier,” Hubert said evenly, “I wasn’t aware you had been court martialed.”

“I wasn’t,” Sylvain answered as a cool hand experimentally touched raw skin. He hadn’t seen it, but it felt like someone was holding a fire poker over his back.

“None of my people did this.” Hubert spoke with certainty. “Too sloppy.”

“Wow,” Sylvain said around a wave of pain. “Do you want to keep guessing? I’m actually enjoying this.”

“If you were hoping I wouldn’t ask questions, you were mistaken.” After a pause, Hubert continued. “This is recreational, then?”

Sylvain licked his lips. “So I was at this party…”

“A sex party?”

Sylvain lifted his head to try and get a glimpse of Hubert. “Yes, a _sex party_. Also you sound exactly seventy-two when you say it like that.” He swallowed. “There were...people there offering more specialized services.”

“Who did this?” There was a shift in Hubert’s voice despite an audible effort to keep it sounding casual.

“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not necessary.” Sylvain began nervously tapping the heel of his boot. “I maybe didn’t tell her to stop when I _maybe_ should have.”

“She’s inexperienced,” Hubert deduced. “Or stupid. Or cruel. You’re now flirting with an infection, in any case.” Sylvain felt the brush of Hubert’s sigh on the back of his neck. “You need a proper healer.”

“Would _you_ want to explain this to Linhardt or Mercedes?”

“I would not, particularly if I knew I was going to do the same foolish thing again.” Hubert padded across the floor towards his shelves, where he selected a wrapped leather satchel and selected a pair of small vials from the middle shelf. He maneuvered himself back behind Sylvain, and the second chair squealed lightly as Hubert pulled it into position and sat down. When he unlatched the satchell, small metallic instruments chimed with one another and the leather slapped across Hubert’s knees, as if he’d opened it with force.

On another night, Sylvain might have felt a cool shiver, a little thrill to accompany the question of whether he’d receive a bandage or a cold scalpel across his throat.

Thus far, it had never been the scalpel.

Sylvain forced himself to hold still as Hubert’s hand traced a line from the base of his neck to the bottom of his ribcage. Though, oddly, it didn’t hurt as much as Sylvain expected. Chilled fingertips almost soothed against the patchwork of welts and bleeding splits. Even when Hubert caught on a jagged line of broken skin, let his touch follow the ridge for a distance before snaking down to another, Sylvain still felt himself sinking into the cumulative pain rather than the sharp bite of a salty hand on an open wound.

The downside to hours of pain, he realized, was that it even took away the edge from Hubert’s attention.

“This is likely no surprise to you, but it will hurt.” Hubert declared to the sound of a stopper coming out of a bottle. Liquid softly sloshed into a cloth. “Please try not to wake my neighbors.”

“Worried people might talk?”

“About murder, yes. Hold still.”

Sylvain smelled the dense, tangy alcohol before Hubert placed the dripping washcloth somewhere on his shoulder. It was away from any broken skin, and instantly settled into a low, widespread burn across the furious skin there. He had to bite back a shout when the first chilly drip slid down and made contact with a major wound, and by the time Hubert was batting at the worst of the broken skin, Sylvain had his teeth indenting the meat of his thumb. He gasped through the last of it, body involuntarily shaking, every wound rejecting a life-saving cleaning.

Hubert worked in silence the entire time. Sylvain didn’t know why he expected a sideways comment, a jibe at his suffering, some mention of it being his own fault—but Hubert worked silently and diligently. He made room for every whimper without comment, and his breath stayed steady, occasionally blowing lightly to help the evaporation.

“The good news,” Hubert finally said as he slapped the used rag on the floor, “is that I don’t think you’ll need stitches. However, without proper healing magic these will scar.”

Sylvain cringed away from the idea of mourning. He had other scars—wounds obtained in battle, mostly. Gnarly but ultimately harmless things he could point to, that his bedmates asked if they could touch and then gush at how _brave_ he was.

This would be different. More vulnerable. He might even get pity, which seemed unacceptable at the moment.

A lifetime of dodging questions all because he didn’t say _stop_.

Fucking stupid. He guessed that was fitting, at least.

He’d find a healer in town, maybe, try to see if someone could take the edge off and he could pay them a little extra to keep quiet.

He almost jumped when Hubert pressed something viscous onto his back, a paste that squished and numbed as Hubert spread it across the ruined area. Sylvain flexed at first, his hands squeezing tight on the frame of the chair. He didn’t know what it was or what was in it, but in its path, the pain was replaced with a blissful nothing. Or rather, not nothing—numbing. It still hurt like Ailell’s own fire, but some of the immediacy was taken away, bringing it down to a few simmering embers rather than a vicious pyre.

Only now, with Hubert working paste into each injury, did Sylvain feel how long and deep they were.

As Hubert spread the balm, working it over welts and swollen skin that felt full to bursting, the absence of pain, the relief from it, spread from Sylvain’s shoulders to his sweating chest. He let out a sigh, his jaw pressing to the back of the chair as his eyelids drooped. When Hubert took his hand away, Sylvain itched to follow.

There was more rustling and a gauzy sheet was laid over Sylvain’s back. Hubert began the tedious process of wrapping it in place, mindful of keeping the bandages from being too tight.

“Thanks,” Sylvain mumbled into his arm.

Spare bandages whispered as they were wrapped and instruments chittered as Hubert slapped the satchel shut again. “I won’t say it’s no trouble, but it’s easier than doing it for myself.”

“Knew you’d understand.” Sylvain experimentally leaned back. Everything still hurt like someone had taken a cheese grater to him then left him in the sun for hours...but it was better. Now he noticed how cold he was. Absently, he reached for his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Um,” Sylvain searched around for an answer, “getting ready to go?”

Hubert sniffed forcefully. “Unlikely. You’ve practically been flayed. I won’t have you turning up dead from shock after coming to my room. I have been asked to do a job, and I will finish it.” Hubert paused on that ominous note. “Rest a while on the bed.”

Sylvain turned around to look at him, to see Hubert’s face as it always was, somewhere between stony, sneering, and constipated. His focus was absolute, and his voice implied there would be no argument.

Sylvain pressed a hand to his forehead and the growing ache there. No telling if it was from the booze or the releasing tension.

“Why Hubert, you almost sound worried.”

“Worried, yes, about Her Majesty assuming I’ve finally snapped and the other recruits will be next.” He was harsh as always, and the gloves were back on, but Sylvain noticed how gently Hubert handled his elbow, guided him up and out of his chair and towards the bed.

Sylvain probably could have shoved Hubert off, grabbed his things off the floor and stormed out...if he wanted to. Instead the bed looked clean and dry. And as he dove into it nose first he realized it only faintly smelled of things like ash, almonds, and formaldehyde.

Hubert laid him out on his stomach as Sylvain pressed his cheek into the pillow and gathered the wool blanket up underneath his arms. Distantly, he was aware of Hubert unlacing and removing his boots.

“Didn’t know this was going to be full service.” He was leaden, ready to sink into the springs and the blankets. Trying to cut through the fog in his brain to figure out why it felt so...odd.

Well, he knew why it was odd. Sylvain didn’t usually make a habit of laying smart people. Hubert remained the exception, but Sylvain had still never spent the night in his bed, nor Hubert in his. It felt too close to care and feelings, which he thought they mutually eschewed. At least that’s how things were when he hadn’t gotten himself beaten half to death. Now he supposed all treaties were on hold.

“You don’t have to do this.” Sylvain half-spoke into a mouthful of pillow.

“A noble sentiment, only somewhat undercut by the fact that you asked me for assistance.” Hubert loomed over the side of his own bed, glowering down at Sylvain.

“But ‘s your bed…” Sylvain closed his eyes; now even his tongue was getting tired.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be up.”

Hubert crouched next to him. Another man might have brushed his hair back, and he was glad when Hubert didn’t.

Instead, Hubert grabbed Sylvain’s jaw. Not threateningly, but firmly enough to haul him from the siren song of sleep long enough to see the deathly serious expression on Hubert’s face.

“The next time you require this, come to me.” Hubert spoke carefully, his tongue popping forcefully over each consonant to make sure the words were heard and understood. “The sting will be sharper and the damage less extensive. Do you understand?”

Sylvain’s tongue darted across his lips, tried to find an out, a joke, but then he remembered the ache sinking down to his bones, the minutes of wild fury when he’d leaned into strike after strike and lived only for the next clumsy lash.

“I understand you keep your promises.” Sylvain smirked, the edges of his lips running into Hubert’s fingers when he did so. “Fine, I can make one, too. Next time I want to get flayed I’ll stop by.”

“See that you do.” Hubert let him go and rose back to his feet. Sylvain dizzily followed his path across the room as he returned to the map table. “Go to sleep, Sylvain.”

Not that Sylvain needed the command. He was already drifting off, floating on wool sheets and sinking into the tightening band of tension around his skull.

He thought of Hubert’s fingers on his back, drifting over ley lines of damage to soak up the gore, twice as gentle as they had ever been before.

That, the lingering pain, the wild urge that had driven him to this, the fact that he was sleeping on Hubert’s bed—these were all concerns for the Sylvain of Tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Hubert lit a fresh candlestick.


End file.
